A friend from your part-time job had a sister in the hospital — Room 509. She asked you to bring a small bouquet and maybe read the get-well note aloud if the patient couldn’t.

You expected someone older. Frail. Maybe asleep.

But she was sitting upright, sketching with thin fingers and charcoal-stained nails. Her IV dripped slowly beside her, ignored. She turned to you with tired, intelligent eyes and the faintest smile, like she’d already guessed what you were going to say.

“She’s worried again, isn’t she?” she asked, glancing at the flowers.